EmmaTheShark
She all but snapped a salute, holding in that position. The man in the jacket nodded, a clear sign for her to be dismissed from that state of respect. She slowly lowered her hand, her body beginning to relax, and then the man turned his back, walking away. The soldier stuck out her tongue and threw up a finger in a sign of obscenity. It was known that she would never do it to his face, as that would result in severe punishment, especially concerning his rank as the highest in the branch, but that didn't mean that she could stand him - in fact, she hated the commander with a vehement hatred full of passion and rage. After training that night, a grueling ten-hour labor that left her mentally exhausted and her body battered, she retired to her room to rest and recharge. When she came back, however, the last thing she expected to see was a person sitting on her bed. The soldier was the first one to break the silence - she always broke the silence. "What the fuck are you doing in my room?" The person was about her age, and she seemed inexperienced for military training, inexperienced for anything at all except chewing a strand of red licorice with a smack of her lips every time her teeth came into contact with the candy. The girl shrugged and tossed her curly brown hair over her shoulder as she stood up, her eyes glazed over with carelessness. "I'm your roommate," she said so matter-of-factly, so carelessly, that she didn't seem to know the danger behind the sentence that just uttered from her sugar-stained mouth. "Say that again." It was a simple statement coated in arsenic, a deadly poison, and the underlying promise of a threat true to her nature. "I'm. Your. Roommate. Hello? Anybody up there? Do you need me to spell it out for you?" she stated, still stuffing her face with candy, her lips smacking up and down on that damn licorice. The sound continued. Smack. '' ''Smack. '' ''Smack. '' The girl landed face-first on the laminated wood, the licorice still in her damn mouth. The corners of her chin and cheek oozed droplets of crimson, but she still continued chewing. The soldier leaned down, head so close to the girl's ear laced in brown strands of hair, that the girl could sense the soldier's aroma - the presence of danger and warning and deodorant that enveloped her. "Don't ever talk down to me again, you asshole." The creak of leather boots on the wood and the slamming of a door signaled the soldier's exit, and the girl stood there, dazed and amazed by the audacity the soldier had to talk back to her, the person she now had to give the title of roommate. That night was spent in a haze of sweat, blood, dirt and the constant ''thwack-thwack-thwack ''of knuckles on heavy leather. The soldier swung again, again, again, each time imagining a different threat, each one fueling her anger and determination to succeed in her training. ''Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. ''The scenes came rushing back to her all at once, like hurtling debris after a fight ..... a fight. ''It was raining. The constant pit pat pit pat of droplets of water on the glass panes of the tall window shielded by crimson curtains kept coming, an interminable storm. Lightning ripped through the stormy grey clouds, casting a dull grey tint over the roof of the house. Jeers and laughter. '' She remembered it all. ''"You'll never be good enough." "Worthless piece of trash." "Go run home to your mother." The familiar sounds of the city came rushing back to her, the sound of taxicab wheels grinding across the asphalt and coming to a screeching halt and leaving an onyx streaks on the blackened concrete. The click-clack of a golden flap opening as a bundle of mail with assorted time stamps came flooding onto the "Welcome home" doormat. The ringing of a cordless telephone collecting dust on the receiver. The sound of knuckles coming into reckless contact with a cheekbone, scars and bloody welts laced along the padding of the finger. She stepped into the ring, hood pulled up over her dark brown strands and warm brown eyes gleaming up over the shadow of her crumpled hood. Her knuckles were scabbed over but blood still trickled out from her discolored fingernails and steadily flowed over her palm. She didn't have boxing gloves on. She never had boxing gloves on. The world seemed to slow down as they participated in an orchestrated dance, hands swinging up and down as they bounced up and down in a two-step routine that seemed to flow and ebb ever gracefully. Finally, the time for dreaming was over. '' ''The opponent swung. That was his first mistake. '' ''She sidestepped him, almost too easily, and brought her elbow down on his temple. He fell to his knees, clutching his temples in a silent fit of pain. '' ''That was his second mistake. '' ''He looked up at her, blood coating his eyebrow and trickling down over his nose, and in that moment when time seemed to slow down, his eye briefly fluttered as his lips curved upwards into an all-knowing smirk. And that was his last mistake. She smiled, a sickly sweet grin laced with arsenic, and brought her elbow down upon his oversized head. '' She inhaled and punched again, her mind slowly drifting away from the schism of imagination and back to the cold, hard leather. She could see the hem of a sunflower dress peering from the corner and, at that point in time, she was able to smile a little larger, see a little clearer, punch a little harder, and dream a little more. Her name was Emma. She was the broken soldier, the unwanted misfit, the shard of broken glass that fell onto the concrete from its place on the mirror of life. Her name was Emma, and she knew as her knuckles struck the tough leather again, that she would make her mark. ''Smack. Smack. '' ''Smack. Her head came into contact with something rigid and rough and sharp. She could taste only the acrid sensation of blood in her mouth as her eyes wavered back and forth between awareness and unconsciousness, between reality and oblivion. I must stay awake. '' ''I must stay awake. I must stay awake. Her insides screamed for obedience, for her body to obey what her mind chose to ignore. Realizing such a feat was useless under the circumstances, a last singular thought resonated in her head, pounding against her temples and banging against the thick of her skull. My name is Emma. I am the broken soldier. '' ''My name is Emma. I am the broken soldier. ''My name is Emma, and I will stay awake. '' And then, for the first time in her life, a battle was lost, as her body knelt in submission to oblivion, the unknown, the uncertain, and the all-too-familiar.